The Unfeeling Dead
by literallyjohnwatson
Summary: Zombie apocalypse AU. Hopefully not as stupid as it sounds.
1. Infection

"Here's the body you wanted to see, then."

Molly Hooper unzipped the body bag that lay on the cool, unfeeling steel table of the morgue. Although it had been cleaned up a bit, the figure inside was nothing pretty to look at. Something had gotten ahold of this body and done a number on it. A considerable hunk of the victim's neck was missing, and the tissue around it was nothing short of mangled.

John glanced up at Molly, noticing that she almost had a cheerful grin upon her lips. She honestly amazed John at times. She wasn't even remotely fazed by the gruesome sight. In fact, John was sure she'd most certainly seen worse without batting an eyelash. She could come off as a bit bashful, but she had steel.

His gaze drifted next to his flatmate, with that all too familiar expression on his face. John could almost hear Sherlock's thoughts whirring from behind his furrowed brow. He scrutinized every inch of the corpse, occasionally stopping to bend down and take a close look.

"What do you think, Sherlock?" John inquired, eyeing the body but clearly not seeing everything that Sherlock did.

"Those bite marks are unmistakably human. No. No, that can't be right," Sherlock muttered more to himself than to John. He pressed his fingertips together and balanced his chin on them, lost in concentration.

Sherlock's deep process of thought was interrupted by a buzzing sound from his pocket. He gave an exasperated sigh, removed his phone from his pocket, ignored the call, and shoved it back in without a second thought.

Barely a second passed before John felt his own mobile buzz to life. He wasn't surprise when he saw Mycroft's name on the screen. Before John could answer it, Sherlock strode over to him and snatched it out of his hand.

"Busy, Mycroft."

"_No, Sherlock you don't understand, you've got to get out-" _

Sherlock hung up and tossed the phone to the floor before John could hear where they were supposed to get out to. John frowned at his flatmate and bent to retrieve his mobile. Just before he got his hand to the phone, he paused. Something caught his eye. A flicker of motion. Did that corpse's hand just twitch? He knew that it wasn't uncommon for bodies to twitch after death, but surely this one had been deceased far too long for that to occur. Must have just been a trick of the light.

His phone buzzed to life just as soon as he got it back in his grasp. Mycroft again. That seemed like a strange phone call, especially for Mycroft. It wasn't unusual for him to phone John after an unsuccessful attempt with Sherlock, but he'd never heard Mycroft that frantic before. It was a bit unsettling.

"Don't humor him," Sherlock said offhandedly, knowing John was going to answer. John rolled his eyes and turned away to answer the call.

"Mycroft."

"_John, you've got to get out of London. I'm sending a helicopter over to Barts, you've-"_

Something wasn't right. He'd never heard Mycroft this frantic before. Not cool, collected Mycroft Holmes.

"Whoa, whoa. Mycroft, slow down. What's going on?"

John never got to hear Mycroft explain. He heard a bloodcurdling scream. Molly Hooper's. He might have even heard Sherlock gasp in surprise. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, his soldier's instincts started to kick in. He'd seen a lot of things, but when he turned around he wasn't prepared to see a corpse, _a dead person_, alert and moving. His phone clattered to the floor.

Most of all he wasn't prepared to see the mouth of that corpse clamped around Molly Hooper's arm.


	2. Escape

Molly's screams didn't falter as she tried desperately to wrench her arm from the corpse's vice-like grip. Sherlock stood still, stunned, not processing what he was seeing. John was shaking, sweating, but his soldier's reflexes allowed him to keep his focus just enough to grab his gun from the waistband of his jeans and take aim.

_Bam._

One shot to the chest. But it didn't stop. The corpse was still alert and moving, and still maintained it's clamp on Molly.

"W-what the hell is this?" John half whispered. This wasn't right. That thing should be dead. Nothing could survive a gunshot straight to the chest. This thing should have been dead in the first place.

His whole body was trembling, but John lined up for a second shot.

_Bam._

The bullet entered the corpse's forehead, spattering blood and brain matter everywhere. Finally, the body ceased to move and Molly was able to free herself. She clutched onto her injured arm with her good one, blood staining her white lab coat.

The gunshots seemed to bring Sherlock back to his senses, and he slowly eyed the body, as if to make sure it was really dead this time. After a few seconds he tore his eyes away from it and hurried over to Molly to check her condition.

"Molly, Molly look at me. We're going to get help, you're going to be fine," Sherlock gasped, clutching her face on either side with both hands. John wasn't sure if he was trying to reassure Molly or himself. He looked up at John with pleading eyes. Still trembling, John wiped the sweat from his brow, nodded, and hastily threw open the door of the morgue to go and retrieve help.

He slammed the door shut almost as soon as he opened it.

"J-jesus, Sherlock. I—there's more. They're walking around, these people, these _things_—they should be dead."

"That's impossible. The dead don't just _walk around,_" Sherlock hissed, his arms around a shaking Molly.

"You saw it just as clear as I did. You can't deduce your way out of this. Mycroft—he said we had to get out of London, that he was sending a helicopter here. This has to be what he meant. He wanted us to get out of this—whatever the hell this is."

"I—we have to get Molly out of here. She's losing too much blood. How many are out there?" Sherlock inquired, removing the blue scarf from his neck and tying it securely around Molly's injured arm.

An ear-shattering scream was heard from somewhere inside the hospital. John swallowed a lump in his throat and estimated how many bullets he had left in his gun.

"Enough. I only have 13 rounds left, I don't know if that's enough to get us out of here."

"Make them count," Sherlock said resolutely, squatting down and scooping up Molly.

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath before pushing the door open and plunging face-first into hell.

Several shuffling bodies cluttered the hallway, no one living seemed to be in sight. John was on his toes. He would only shoot the ones that came dangerously close. He was breathing heavily, and his heart was about to pound right out of his chest. They walked quickly, stealthily, but they didn't run. The walking corpses didn't seem to take too much notice and only lumbered slowly after them. John would take care of them if they got too close.

As they were about to round a corner, John motioned for Sherlock to stop. He looked onward and saw a young nurse cornered by a zombie. Zombies—yes, that was what they were John supposed. The living dead. He raised his gun to shoot the offending zombie, but he was too late. He watched in terror as the thing sank it's teeth into the nurse's neck, continuously ripping at her flesh. He shot too late at the corpse, sending a bullet through it's head with ease.

Whether it was the sound of the gunshot or the smell of fresh human flesh, John didn't know, but the few bodies clambering around in the hall behind them seemed to take notice. They were getting too close.

_Bam. Bam. Bam._

Three shots, three bodies dead for a second time.

John ran out to the wounded woman.

"Can you stand? Walk? We'll get you out of here, we'll-"

"Shoot me!" the woman sobbed

"What? No, we can-" John stammered.

"No I'll turn, please I'm begging you, I don't want to—please," she reached out and took John's hand gingerly in her own. "Please, i-it's alright." The look in her eyes was so pleading. John let the full meaning of her words sink in.

_She'll turn. She'll become one of them. A walking corpse._

He closed his eyes and turned away, his breathing tight.

"I'm sorry."

_Bam._

Only nine shots left.

"John, there's no time, we have to get out!" Sherlock shouted, a barely conscious Molly still clinging to him.

John studied her half-limp form. Would she turn? Become one of them? John knew the answer. Did Sherlock? Of course he did. He just didn't want to admit it.

He shook his thoughts and got his mind back to the task at hand. Only a few more meters to the stairs. Only two flights of stairs to the ground floor. A few more meters to the exit. Then what?

They made their way to the door of the stairwell. John took a deep breath and bust though the door brandishing his gun in front of him. Nothing. Maybe those things couldn't climb the stairs. They made their way into the stairwell and climbed the stairs as fast as possible, huffing and puffing the whole way.

"Sherlock, what do we do once we get to the exit?" John managed between breaths.

"Don't I always think of something?" Now was not the time to be cheeky, Sherlock.

John was willing to trust his flatmate's judgment, partially because it hadn't failed him thus far, and partially because he didn't have any ideas himself.

As they neared the door to the ground floor, John's heart rate increased. He gripped the door handle tightly and braced himself for what lay on the other side. He heard screams.

He thrust the door open and was greeted with complete and utter chaos. He couldn't fully take in all of what he was seeing. There was a lot of them—definitely more than could be handled with only nine bullets left. There were living people, running, screaming, _dying._ Some of them were being freshly attacked, some of them lay on the ground, not stirring. They would be soon enough.

"Sherlock, there's way too many. What do we do?" John didn't think even Sherlock would be able to get them out of this. This wasn't a criminal, this was some kind of plague, a virus. Sherlock couldn't deduce it, break it down, make it go away. John wasn't even sure if they would be able to make it to safety—if safety even existed anymore. He found himself thinking those familiar words.

_Please God, let me live._

"We run. Cover me," Sherlock said, a little too calmly, considering.

"Sherlock, there's too many—," John stammered to no avail, Sherlock was already racing headfirst into the throng of the living and dying, leaving John with no choice but to do his best to cover him.

Somehow, Sherlock was able to choose the clearest path amidst all the calamity going on around them. That still didn't stop problems from arising.

_Bam. _

One darts out in front of Sherlock.

_Bam._

One lunges out for John.

_Bam. Bam. Bam. _

Three block the exit of the hospital.

John positions himself back in front of Sherlock. Several are waiting on the other side of the door to St. Barts. The automatic door slides open.

_Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. _

Only one shot left. They were left open in a swarm of zombies. They were zeroing in on them. Now what?

"There!" Sherlock shouted, nodding towards a running taxi a few paces away. John sprinted as fast as he could to the driver's side door, almost shouting in relief when he found the door ajar. He practically threw himself into the vehicle, with Sherlock clambering into the back with Molly. As soon as everyone was in, John locked the doors, made sure all the windows were rolled up, and floored it. He adjusted the rearview mirror slightly and saw Sherlock with Molly's head resting in his lap in the backseat. How long would it be before she turned?

"Where to? Baker Street?" John pondered aloud, taking care not to run into any bodies—living or dead.

"I—yes. It should be secure enough. Surely Mrs. Hudson had enough sense to lock up—," Sherlock's voice stopped dead in his throat.

John felt his heart drop as he realized why Sherlock dropped out mid-sentence.

_Mrs. Hudson._


	3. Contamination

"Sherlock, I—she's smart. She would lock up, safe in Baker Street. She's there, she's fine Sherlock." John wasn't sure he believed his own words. But there was no way. Mrs. Hudson was safe. She was there, safe, secure. He refused to believe the opposite.

Sherlock didn't respond. He seemed outwardly calm, but John could tell he wasn't. His mind was whirring; he was trying to figure out a logical reason for all this. There wasn't one—there couldn't be. Sherlock was overwhelmed, he couldn't respond to this with reason. John knew he was scared. This was like Baskerville, except this time, people were dying. People Sherlock cared about. He could put on that cold and calculating front, but he couldn't fool John. Sherlock _cared_, of course he did.

John glanced in the back seat again and saw Molly, barely conscious. The reality of the situation hit John. She was going to die. She was going to die, and she was going to come back. And John would have to kill her again. Sweet little Molly Hooper. Strong Molly Hooper.

He had seen so many things in his life time. Gruesome injuries, mangled limbs. He had watched people die. His friends, comrades. But once they were dead they were at peace. They weren't stuck in this bullshit world anymore, they could rest. He couldn't fully comprehend what was going on here. These innocent lives, taken, and then forced to roam around free from rest, terrorizing the living. Molly Hooper wouldn't hurt a fly, but what would she do once she was turned into one of these mindless creatures?

He turned his focus back to the road. It was insane how quickly all of this hit, the city was in ruins. Nobody had any time to prepare for any of this, but who in the world ever thinks that something like this would actually come to pass?

There were cars turned over on their sides, corpses littered the sidewalk—roaming and still. There were a few living people scrambling, trying to find somewhere safe, and John watched helplessly as they fell prey to the walking dead. He only had one shot left.

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I can't help you._

He sped on, focused on getting to Baker Street. He only had to turn one last corner. As he rounded it, his breath caught in his throat. There were so many of them. So many of them and only one shot left.

"Pull up straight to the door, John," Sherlock commanded. He didn't have to tell John twice. He pulled up as close as he could get while leaving just enough room to open the car door.

"Stay in, I'll get the door unlocked," John instructed. Shaking, John scrambled in his pocket for his keys to the flat. Once the door was unlocked, he flung open the back door of the car and brandished his gun, ready to shoot anything that dared get too close to his flatmate. The hoard of corpses was closing in on them. They were the only living beings on the street.

"Get in, Sherlock! Get in!" John shouted, a nervous sweat forming on his brow. Just as several zombies lingered dangerously close to the car, John glanced over his shoulder and saw Sherlock disappear inside 221B. John followed without hesitation, slamming the door shut behind him. He pressed his back to the door, wanting to feel a barrier between him and those things. Breathing heavily, he sank down to the ground and clutched his chest, as if that would keep his heart from pounding. He could still hear them moving around outside. He thought that the car parked in front of the door would keep a good majority of them at bay, but he made sure to lock and deadbolt the door, and he wedged the small table in the hall under the knob for good measure. That would hold for now, there were more important matters to attend to.

"Mrs. Hudson!" She had to be here. She was here; she was safe. That was the only possibility.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called again, moving through the flat. "Mrs Hud-," he was cut off by Sherlock stepping into the hallway, Molly's blood staining his front, his expression unreadable.

"She's not here, John."

No. No, she has to be.

"She was out. Shopping."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. W-what are we going to do?"

"Nothing. We can't, not right now." Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something more, but no words came out.

"Dammit!" John pounded his fist into the wall. This wasn't fair. He and Sherlock were allowed to run around London, risking their lives, that was their choice. Mrs. Hudson was stronger than she looked, but she didn't have any choice at being thrown into all this. None of these people did. He thought of her alone and afraid, hiding from these monsters down some aisle in Tesco. Or worse, being ripped apart—no, that was too much to bear, he couldn't think of that.

"John, have you got enough supplies here to patch Molly up?"

"I-yes, but—"

"Then do it."

"Sherlock, I can save her, but you realize that she—she'll turn. She'll become one of them?"

"I'm well aware. Patch her up."

John sighed and trudged up the stairs to the flat, his fists balled, adrenaline still coursing through him. As he entered the sitting room, he saw Molly laid out on the sofa. Sherlock had removed her lab coat and re-tied his scarf around her arm to staunch the bleeding. She was dangerously pale, she had lost a lot of blood, but if John got her stitched up, she would be able to pull through in normal circumstances. He had no idea what kind of effects the contamination from the zombie would have.

He retrieved his supplies and leaned down to inspect the wound. First things first, he needed to get it disinfected. He knew it was going to sting. A lot.

"Molly, are you with me? I need to sterilize your wound. This is going to sting, ok? Please bear with me." Molly was able to nod slightly to show that she understood John. She was drenched in sweat.

"Sherlock, hold her hand." He did, and John noted the look in his eyes. Was it concern? Sympathy?

She gritted her teeth and cried out as John poured disinfectant into her open wound. She writhed, but made no attempt to pull her wounded arm from him. Sherlock had both his hands on hers.

"Shh, you're alright, you're doing great Molly," John cooed, brushing the hair off her forehead plastered there by sweat. He felt her with the back of his hand. She was burning up. "The worst is over; I'm just going to get you patched up now, ok?" She didn't openly respond this time, but John set to work dressing her wound. By the time he was finished, she was no longer conscious.

"Sherlock, what are we going to do with her?"

"Will she regain consciousness?"

"She should, after she gets some rest."

"We'll let her decide, then."


	4. Quarantine

"Damn, no service," Sherlock cursed, tossing his useless mobile aside.

"Who were you phoning?" John inquired. He realize he'd left his mobile on the floor of the morgue in all the confusion.

"Lestrade."

John gave a look of surprise and then a small smile. Was Sherlock actually worried about him, or did he have some ulterior motive for trying to contact him?

"How's Molly?" Sherlock asked offhandedly, flicking aside the curtain to gaze at the dead trudging through the street. There were still quite a lot of them, but all entrances to the flat had since been barricaded. They wouldn't pose too much of a threat at the present.

"Last time I checked, she sleeping normally, but she's got a terrible fever. I don't know what's wrong, it should have gone down by now. It's got to be this—this thing, this virus, whatever it is. She's infected, Sherlock. I'm guessing it's only a matter of time before she turns," John said, a bit of worry in his voice as he poured tea for himself and Sherlock. Hey, the world seems to be ending, let's have a cuppa, shall we? But John had to admit it felt good to do something this normal. He could sip this tea and pretend that he and Sherlock were doing nothing more than unraveling a particularly difficult case. In a way, that's what they were doing. But there wasn't any solution to this. This was bigger than both of them.

"We'll have to cross that bridge when we come to it," Sherlock muttered, sipping his tea and still gazing out the window. "If only I could study them more closely."

"Jesus, no Sherlock. No. They're dangerous, too dangerous. They're not some kind of criminal; this isn't a case we can solve. You're bit, and it's all over. You're not leaving me here to put a bullet in your head."

"If I could just take one apart. I need to understand. There has to be an explanation, this doesn't make any sense." Sherlock threw the curtain back over the window in frustration and turned his back to it. John knew it was driving him mad. He thought everything could be broken down, that there was always a logical flow of events. John didn't think there was any logic in this. He didn't know what it was. Was it really the end of the world? The wrath of some vengeful god? An escaped government experiment? No, there wasn't any logic in this, and he knew Sherlock wouldn't be able to come to terms with that. He wouldn't be able to accept that this was something beyond the scope of anything man had ever seen before, and not even his brilliant mind would be able to make sense of it. "I just need to experiment on one."

"Why don't you use me?" The voice was quiet and frail, but nonetheless John jumped from hearing it, not expecting to hear anything other than himself and Sherlock. It was Molly. She shuffled around the corner, still clutching her wounded arm. She looked so tiny. "That's what's going to happen to me, isn't it? I'm going to turn into one of them? That's what happens in the movies."

John rushed over to her with a chair. "Molly, here you need to sit, you're still weak, you shouldn't be up." She still stood. Sherlock turned and looked at her with an almost confused look.

"Use me when I turn. Experiment on me. Figure out what's going on here," she said, her voice soft but resolute.

"Molly, you don't know what you're saying—"

"Yes, I do," she cut off John, her volume increasing. "I know what's going to happen to me. If I—if I'm going to die, going to become one of them, I don't want it to be in vain. Maybe—maybe Sherlock can fix this. Maybe he can save all these people."

John sighed and massaged his temples with his thumb and forefinger. Sherlock was brilliant, there was no denying that. But he wasn't a medical genius, and there wasn't enough equipment here to do any massive research. Sherlock wasn't going to have some kind of breakthrough and cure this mess. John knew that, Sherlock knew that, Molly probably knew that. This wasn't Sherlock trying to save the world, this was Sherlock wanting to satisfy his own perverse curiosity. John found the idea of him poking and prodding at Molly's deceased form intensely disquieting.

"No. Molly, no, this can't be cured! These people are _dead_! There isn't a cure for that!"

"I don't care! I—I just want to be of some use! Please. It's what I want." John knew she wasn't going to back down. If it was really what she wanted, fine, but he hoped it wasn't attributed to her obvious infatuation with Sherlock.

"John, make her comfortable for now. We'll have to keep an eye on her; I want to observe her when she turns." John said nothing, but gingerly took Molly by the arm and led her back to the sofa. When he had he all settled in, he trooped back in the kitchen and rounded on Sherlock.

"How could you say that in front of her like that? She's probably scared to death, and you're talking about it like it's nothing! Doesn't she mean anything to you? She's _dying_. You're just going to observe her and treat her like another one of your experiments? That's not just any random person, that's Molly, Sherlock!"

"What does it matter? It's what she wants, she's just said so. Would it make any difference if I used a random from off the street? Are they any less important? Just because I know Molly, I can't observe her, even after she's given her consent? That's more than any other subject would be able to give me at this point, and I can watch her turn. Maybe I can understand what's causing this."

"And then what? You can't fix this, you can't cure it. You just want to pacify your own mind," John spat back at him, although he couldn't find words to refute Sherlock's argument. He understood his logic, it just didn't _feel_ right. And that's what Sherlock couldn't understand.

"And what's the problem with that? She's just given her consent! What does it matter? Emotions are dangerous in this situation, John. Take a second and realize that most of the people in both our lives are probably dead. It'll hurt a lot worse if you remove them."

"And you're the great Sherlock Holmes, cold as ice, unfeeling! Say what you want, I know you can't just turn your emotions off. I suppose you tried to phone Lestrade to chat about the weather, then? Jesus, Sherlock," John stated in disbelief, walking out of the room and ending the conversation. He tossed Sherlock's words around in his head. What he said was true. His family, friends, acquaintances, they were probably all dead. The thought was too huge to fit in his head. He cursed himself, but he had to take Sherlock's advice, his emotions had to be pushed aside for the moment. He wasn't ready to cope with the scope of this situation.

He walked back over to Molly, hoping she hadn't heard his altercation with Sherlock in the kitchen. He had to ask her, one last time.

"You're sure this is what you want, Molly?"

"Yes, I'm sure. There's just one thing. He can study me all he likes, but not as a _walking_ corpse. After you watch me turn, just—just stop me. I don't know what I'll do; I don't want to hurt you. You can examine me all you want, I just want it to be safe."

"I understand."

John let the words sink in and understood what it truly meant. He was going to have to kill her. Watch her die, watch her reanimate while Sherlock sat back and took notes, and then kill her.


	5. Liquidation

"Here." John stuck his arm out behind him and offered Sherlock a cigarette.

"These are from my secret supply," Sherlock grumbled, accepting it.

"Well it wasn't very secret then, was it?"

"You don't smoke."

"And you were quitting. The world's gone to shit, the last thing I care about is the state of our lungs." The two men stood in silence in the kitchen of their flat, the unfeeling dead lumbering around in the street outside. The unfeeling living stood next to John and took a drag from his cigarette.

"John," Sherlock began, shattering the silence that hung thick between them.

"You were right. I have to cut my emotions out of this. I can't think about it, Sherlock. I can't. I can't think about Harry, I can't think about Mrs. Hudson, I can't even think about the woman I flirted with a few days ago at Tesco. They're all—they're all dead. I can't wrap my mind around it, I can't handle it—I can't! I don't have any choice but to stop my feelings, numb myself. If I don't, I'll go insane. I've seen a lot of shit in my life, Sherlock. But this so much bigger—this could be affecting the entire world for all we know! I can't react to it, I don't know how." John flicked his cigarette and turned his back towards Sherlock.

"No one is equipped to deal with something like this, John. You have to adapt. If anyone can, it's you. You've always been a survivor," Sherlock remarked, exhaling through his nose.

John couldn't stop the ridiculous grin from creeping onto his face. He was glad his back was to Sherlock. He chuckled aloud.

"I never liked smoking," he said, putting out his half stub of a cigarette on the table and striding back into the sitting room. Only one night has passed since this disaster started. Already, John couldn't remember what it was like to feel at ease, to feel _normal_. It seemed like a thousand years had passed since he and Sherlock were doing nothing more than observing a body for a case. There would be no more cases. There would be no more consulting detective. There would be no more consulting criminal either. Well, he wouldn't count Moriarty out just yet. He was slippery—hard to catch, maybe even for these creatures. Perhaps by some incredibly fanciful twist of face he was behind this, watching John and Sherlock from afar and laughing as those close to them died. Soon Sherlock would figure it out, find him, dance through his game. They'd phone Lestrade and he'd come down and arrest him and this would all be over.

"John?" Molly's tiny voice interrupted his daydreaming. "Would you get me a glass of water?"

"Sure thing," he replied, stopping to feel her forehead. He was astounded at how bad her fever was. It had been nearly 48 hours and it hadn't broken once. Her condition had done nothing but worsen. She was sweating, often times shaking, and she vomited quite frequently. John didn't know how much longer she could last. Brave Molly Hooper.

"How's she holding up?" Sherlock inquired, finishing his cigarette as John reentered the kitchen.

"She's a fighter, but I don't think she can keep it up for much longer." Sherlock said nothing in reply to this as John fetched a glass from the cabinet and filled it. "She doesn't want to be left to wander around after she turns, either. She knows she'll be dangerous. She wants us to—take care of her, and then you can do whatever you want after that."

"I suspected as much."

John sighed and returned to the sitting room to bring Molly her water. He gazed down at her. She was so pale, so tiny, so fragile.

"John, where's Sherlock?" she whispered, straining to speak.

"I'm here," he stated, stepping out from the door frame. Maybe it was the dimmer lighting in the sitting room, or the cigarette he just smoked, but John thought he looked tired. Molly looked up at him and gave a weak smile which only lingered briefly on her lips. The corners of her mouth turned down and her chin quivered.

"I—I can't do it anymore, I can't fight this. I—," she sobbed, tears slowly overflowing from her eyes.

"Molly, if you feel like it's time to let go, it's alright. We're here, we'll take care of you. You don't have to suffer anymore," John reassured her. He had done this too many times. Sat next to a dying person and comforted them. Sometimes they'd tell him bits about their lives—their regrets, their last requests, their fears, their dreams. He still remembered all those little bits.

"I'm—I'm scared. I'm leaving so much behind. What about my cat, my poor cat? Someone has to feed him. And Mum and Dad, I can't even say goodbye. I—," she clamped her eyes shut and turned her head away. John opened his mouth to say something, but his words stopped as Sherlock strode across the room, knelt down at Molly's side, and kissed her on the cheek.

"You've been so brave, Molly Hooper." Those definitely were not the actions John expected from Sherlock. He expected him to tell her that she was in fact leaving nothing behind. All her family and friends, and yes probably even her cat, had all fallen victim to this mess just like she had.

Molly made a sound that was somewhere between a giggle and a sob. She cleared her throat and got her bearings and then choked out: "I can at least say goodbye to you two, then."

John thought he saw Sherlock squeeze her hand.

"John, you've been lovely, and sweet—you always are. Thank you. For everything."

"Don't mention it." His voice cracked. This was different than sitting at a stranger's deathbed.

"Promise me something?"

"Yes, anything."

"Take care of Sherlock."

John laughed.

"Always am, Molly." That remark even got a smirk out of Sherlock. Molly gave a tiny smile and turned to Sherlock.

"Behave yourself, then. And Sherlock—I," she gasped. She cried harder than ever, and somehow she managed to muster up her remaining energy to throw her other arm around him, sobbing into his shoulder, muttering something incoherent.

"I know, Molly. I'm sorry," he replied. John had never heard his voice so small. He was sorry, for what? Sorry that she loved him and he couldn't love her back?

Sherlock turned his head and made eye contact with John. What was his expression? Was it sadness? Regret? Was Sherlock truly upset, or was he just putting on a show? No, he couldn't be faking this. As cold as he could be, John knew he Molly was included in his list of exceptions. He thought maybe he should give them some privacy, but Sherlock looked almost pleading. John realized Sherlock didn't fully know how to react to this. John took that look as an indicator that Sherlock wanted him to stay, to give him stability in this unfamiliar situation.

He shut his eyes, turned back to face Molly, and sighed. He raised his arm, tentatively at first, and then with conviction, threw it around her to reciprocate the embrace. John was sure at this point there was no way he was putting on a show. He had seen Sherlock hug people (mainly Mrs. Hudson) on rare occasions but this was different. This was raw; this was Sherlock shedding away the layers he always worked so hard to keep up. John wondered if he had ever seen anyone close to him die.

As Sherlock broke the contact, he turned his head and furrowed his brows, like he couldn't stand to look at Molly anymore. Without saying another word, he sauntered out of the room and into his own, softly closing the door behind him.

"I'm sorry, John," she choked, her face still wet with tears, "but could you just leave me here to rest? I'm so tired."

"Of course, Molly," he replied, his throat tight. He understood what she wanted.

She wanted to be left alone to die.

The air in the room suddenly became so thick he thought he might suffocate. Molly would. She would use up what little air was left in this room, until eventually her breathing would stop altogether. Then she would lay in wait for one of them to find her, stone cold and unmoving. Then, like something out of a nightmare, she would wake up, stiff and dead and hungry.

John trudged back into the kitchen. Not knowing what to do with himself, he put the kettle on again. He spied his laptop on the table out of the corner of his eye. How did that get there? Sherlock, probably. He signed on and opened a blank word document. He knew he wasn't a fantastic writer. If you asked Sherlock he probably wouldn't even say John was good. He only started it up because his therapist had pushed it, and he only continued it because his life with Sherlock supplied him with material so interesting that he was sure half of his readers didn't care if his writing was good or not. To John, the matter of whether or not his writing was good was irrelevant. He hated to admit it, but writing really did have a therapeutic effect on him. It took his mind off things. Or maybe that was just Sherlock.

Right now he definitely needed a distraction. The thought of Molly laying in the sitting room waiting for death was pressing so hard on his mind he was sure it would crush him.

So he wrote.

He sat down, and he wrote up the events that had transgressed in the past two days. He knew that no one would ever read it, but nonetheless his fingers hammered away at the keys. He wrote it up just the same as he would any other case, like nothing was out of the ordinary. He had no sense of time as he worked tirelessly for what could have been several hours. After he was finished, he saved the document and poured himself some more tea. It was cold, but he didn't care.

He opened a new document. He typed the first line.

_Dear Harry,_

He thought about what Molly said, about not being able to say goodbye to her loved ones. Then he thought about what Sherlock said, about his loved ones most likely being dead. This was his goodbye. He had never got on well with his sister, but he couldn't bear to think about her in the ranks of the lifeless corpses inhabiting the city.

No one would ever read this letter, but he poured everything that was left unsaid between him and his sister into it. He wrote how pissed off he was that she drowned everything in her life with booze. He wrote how sorry he was that he closed his eyes to what was happening to her and didn't try to help her sooner. He wrote that he loved her, and he knew she loved him too despite everything that went on between them.

He shut his laptop and sipped his cold tea. He sat with his face in his hands for a few minutes. Or maybe it was a few hours. Time didn't mean anything anymore. He thought he might actually nod off, but he stirred when he heard Sherlock's voice call softly from the sitting room. It was so soft John was surprised he heard it at all.

"John."

He swallowed hard and drug himself back into the sitting room as a huge knot formed in his stomach. He couldn't bring himself to look at Molly until Sherlock said, "Check her vitals."

He could tell before placed his fingers to her wrist that she was gone. She didn't look peaceful. She looked like she had suffered. He eyes were closed, but her mouth hung slightly open. She was still damp with now cold sweat and her hair hung limp around her face. There were bags under her eyes and she was of sickly pallor.

"Gone." His mouth was dry despite the tea he had just drunk. Sherlock pursed his lips and furrowed his brow.

"We need to move her. I don't know how long it will take before she turns." Right. Wouldn't want to mess up the sofa when it's time to shoot her in the head. "The basement, 221C should do. Get your gun."

Sherlock had shown his sentiment earlier, now it was time for business. As he bent down to scoop up Molly's lifeless form, John went to search for his gun. Where had he left it? Ah yes, right near the door. He had flung it down as soon as they had reached the safety of their flat.

As he neared the hallway, he could see it on the floor, black and cold. He picked it up. It had never felt so heavy in his hand. He trudged down the stairs to the flat below 221B. He realized that Sherlock must know where Mrs. Hudson kept the keys. What didn't Sherlock know?

When he nudged open the door, he saw Molly laid out on the floor with Sherlock beside her, carefully examining her pupils. John didn't know what he had expected to see. Sherlock thrown over her body weeping? Surely not.

"You think I haven't mourned properly," Sherlock mumbled, not looking up. John didn't answer. "You think I don't know how. I do, John. Everyone mourns in different ways."

"I know, Sherlock," John muttered in reply. He just didn't expect him to be so eager for research this quickly.

"I have to work quickly and gather as much data as I can while I can. I don't know how long it'll take before she turns. "

"Right." Of course. John didn't want to argue at the moment, nor did he have the energy to. He sat down on the floor and propped himself up against the wall and turned his head away from Sherlock and his experiments. He didn't want to watch whatever he was doing to Molly's lifeless body. Once he was in a semi-comfortable position, his exhaustion hit him. He was spent from the last couple days, mentally and physically. The one night of sleep he had tried to gather during this whole fiasco was restless and haunted with images of his loved ones as roaming corpses. His closed his eyes and his head nodded.

Sherlock was standing in front of him. His skin was a sickly gray color, his limbs were stiff and turned at odd angles. Blood matted his hair and oozed down his face. His neck was mangled, just like the first corpse they had seen reanimate in the morgue. His eyes were black and lackluster. The eyes of a dead man.

Sherlock moved towards him, slowly. He drew ragged, rattling breaths. A grisly arm reached out for him. John looked down at his own hands; they were covered in blood. His flesh began to peel from his body. He looked from his own rotting body and back to Sherlock's. He started to panic. Where was his gun? He scrambled to find it. He needed it desperately. He would have to shoot Sherlock and then himself. he could feel tears welling up in his eyes. Sherlock was so close he was inches away from touching him. The ghastly figure spoke to him.

"John," it wheezed. "John!"

John woke with a start and discovered that it wasn't the ghostly Sherlock of his dream speaking to him, but the real live one. How long was he asleep? He guessed maybe an hour or two. He surveyed the scene laid out before him. Sherlock seemed on edge. Then he noticed Molly's arm stirring.

It was starting.

"Oh God," he gasped, clambering to his feet and wrapping a hand on his gun. He could hear rattling, gurgling breaths coming from Molly, as if she had fluid on her lungs. Her skin had a languid, gray flush to it. She opened her eyes. They seemed to have a milky film covering them, and her pupils were dark. He remembered how her eyes used to look. So kind and soft.

This wasn't Molly anymore.

He saw Sherlock, his face intense, studying every inch of the body before him, trying to take in as much information as he could. Only seconds remained before she would become a danger to them both, and John would have to stop her. He swallowed hard.

She sat up, and her rasping breathing became more audible. Sherlock knelt down beside her and grabbed her face in both hands, looking straight into those unfamiliar eyes. Her arms flew up and grasped his wrists. Her hungry mouth hung open.

John drew his gun.

"Sherlock, move." He didn't stir. His gaze was still fixed upon her eyes. She was dangerously close to him. The ghoulish image Sherlock from John's nightmare danced in the back of his mind. "Sherlock!"

In one fluid motion, Sherlock ripped himself free from her grip, stood, and took several steps back. She writhed and scrambled to her feet.

"Give me your gun, John," Sherlock requested calmly.

"Sherlock…"

"Give me. Your gun," he commanded through clenched teeth. John handed it over. She inched closer and closer to them, there was no time to argue.

Sherlock took a deep breath, steeled himself, and took aim. John wanted to look away, but he was frozen where he stood.

"Rest now," Sherlock whispered mournfully. He pulled the trigger. Blood spattered. She fell to the floor with a thud.

John had never seen anything more grotesque.


	6. Expedition

_Bam._

Sherlock fired his gun at Molly's mangled form, but she didn't stop coming. Where was the bullet wound? John felt warmth blossoming from his chest. His hand flew up and came into contact with something wet. Reluctantly, he looked down to discover the bullet wound spurting scarlet from his own chest. How? He looked back up. Molly had the gun. Her grisly hands were raised, she was aiming at Sherlock. John was gasping for breath as blood filled his lungs. That didn't matter. He had to save Sherlock. He couldn't let her shoot him. His feet were glued to the floor, he was frozen, there was nothing he could do.

_Bam._

John woke with a start and bolted upright. He was drenched with sweat, his heart was pounding. He rested his head in his hands and tried to catch his breath. He knew if he stopped fighting it, tears would probably spill from his eyes.

He couldn't allow that. Emotions weren't an option anymore.

He let himself fall back on his bed and threw his arm over his face. It'd been at least two years since his nightmares had stopped. When he was with Sherlock, he felt invincible, like he could take on the world. He wasn't haunted by his past in the military. All he saw was what was laid in front of him, this exciting, unpredictable life. Whatever happened, surely Sherlock would be able to fix it, to get them out of it.

But not this.

His nightmares had come back tenfold. They were twisted, grotesque, they didn't make sense. Most of them involved Sherlock being mortally wounded or dying. He hated to admit it, but that was a real possibility. It wasn't that John had believed Sherlock to be immortal, but he had thought that Sherlock was some kind of being above the rest of the human race. It was hard for anything to touch him, and if anything did, John would be there to protect him. Nothing was getting to Sherlock without going through John first.

Going back to sleep didn't even cross his mind. Awake or asleep, horrible creatures tortured him. There was no escape from the hell he was in. He peeled his sheets off and threw his feet off the side of the bed.

He crept down the stairs as quietly as he could, but his fatigue made his steps heavy. There was no sign of Sherlock anywhere downstairs. Four days had passed since Sherlock fired John's gun and put an end to Molly. Since then, he had only seen Sherlock sporadically. He was either downstairs doing god knows what with that corpse or shut up in his room.

John opened the cupboard, but there wasn't much of a selection. Their food stores were running low. This was incredibly problematic. They were going to have to go out for supplies soon.

He settled for some tea to calm his nerves, though he knew in reality nothing was going to calm him down. Just as the kettle finished boiling and he poured himself a cup, Sherlock's shadowy figure appeared in the doorway. John wouldn't have known he was there if he hadn't spoken.

"You had a nightmare."

Sherlock had always known about John's nightmares. In their first few weeks of living together, this wasn't an unfamiliar scene. John wandering about the place attempting to clear his head and shake off his haunting thoughts, Sherlock milling around doing whatever it was that he did so late at night. The first time Sherlock caught him up and about, John was somewhat embarrassed to talk about the cause of his disturbed sleep. He was a grown man, he didn't need mummy to tuck him in and tell him there weren't monsters in his closet. Even if John had wanted to hide it, there was no hiding anything from Sherlock.

The first night Sherlock had discovered John awake at an unreasonable hour, he was able to discern why immediately. He had never once teased John about it, or even tried to delve into the matter. He would broach the subject, as if he only wanted to prove that he could figure it out without John telling him. After that, he would depart from it, maybe making conversation about a case or some ridiculous experiment he was carrying out. After a while, John would feel comfortable enough to go back to sleep. After a few weeks, his nightmares stopped completely.

It didn't take a genius to figure out why they had come back.

John simply nodded and sipped his tea. It was just like old times. They'd have some conversation that John would only partly remember in the morning, and then they'd set off that day to chase down London's most wanted. Or maybe they wouldn't even do that. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't even leave the flat, and John would leave to take care of some errands only to return to the flat wrecked by Sherlock's combined boredom and curiosity. Yes, something simple and mundane like that sounded even better than working on a case.

"Have you actually been able to figure anything out down there?" John inquired, shifting the conversation away from himself.

"Nothing of consequence. I can't discern enough from a corpse only, I need a moving one. It's almost impossible to understand why—_how _the brain re-animates the body. Or why they need the sustenance of human flesh. Perhaps they just _want_ it. That would be poignant commentary on the human race, wouldn't it? Just as greedy in death as in life."

Nothing more than that? If he was honest with himself, John knew he didn't expect many answers from Sherlock. He couldn't bear to think about Molly's body in the basement, Sherlock doing god knows what to it. Perhaps examining her body had given Sherlock some perverse peace of mind, but it did the opposite for John.

"We'll have to go back out there soon. For food and supplies," John stated, changing the subject yet again.

"Mmm. Tomorrow," Sherlock mumbled, looking out the window onto the darkened street.

"Tomorrow? That's soon, isn't it? We could last a few more days." John wanted to take more time to plan something like this. Thoughts of Sherlock maimed and grizzly swam to the front of his mind.

"Tomorrow, three days from now, what does it matter? If anything, the sooner we stock up the better. Is there enough gas in that car?"

"Yes, plenty."

"How much ammunition have you got?"

"I think I've got three clips upstairs, plus whatever you've got. I know you've got a pistol of your own around here, and god knows what else."

"I've only got the pistol, and only one clip. That should be enough for now, but it would be beneficial if we could locate some more. The Yard's most likely deserted; we'll be able to commandeer some of their supplies."

John didn't answer, save for a nod through a vacant expression. They were going back out into that hell. Into that awful battlefield. Being locked up in the flat for a week had given John a somewhat false sense of security. He always felt on edge, but he knew he was in no immediate danger. He didn't want to be thrown into the thick of it again so soon. He was used to being in peril, but he wasn't used to the people closest to him dying.

"Go back to sleep, John. Nothing's going to get you," Sherlock said lazily, striding back towards his own room.

"It's not me I'm worried about," John mumbled back under his breath, though he was sure that Sherlock heard him. He would have loved to register the expression on Sherlock's face, but he was so fatigued that nightmares or not John was ready to take his advice.

He trudged up the stairs and let himself fall haphazardly onto his bed, trying not to think about anything in particular. Not about leaving the flat tomorrow, not about dying, not about the creatures stumbling around on the street. Soon enough, he was allowed to fall into an undisturbed sleep, albeit one that did not feel very satisfying come morning.

Rolling over, he checked the alarm clock on his nightstand. 1 PM. He couldn't remember for the life of him the last time he had slept that late. With a stiff neck and a sore back, John sat up in bed and sighed. Maybe if he didn't come downstairs, they wouldn't have to go out today after all. Begrudgingly, he slung his feet to the ground and ascended down the steps, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"You don't normally sleep this late," Sherlock drawled from the sofa. It didn't appear that he had been doing anything other than staring into space prior to John's appearance.

"Yeah, well, nothing about any of this is normal, is it?" His voice was rough from sleep.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked in amusement. He turned to face John and his expression fell slightly. "Eat something, then we're going out."

John sighed, frowning a bit. He didn't feel like eating at all. In fact, he felt rather sick. He supposed he ought to take Sherlock's advice and eat something, he'd need all the strength he could get for what they were about to do. He thought about shooting Sherlock a sarcastic remark encouraging him to eat as well, but John had learned very early on in their relationship that food seemed to be something that Sherlock did not require like other human beings. John had begun to suppose that Sherlock breathed in sustenance from the air or something as equally ridiculous.

John trudged into the kitchen and took a muffin from the pantry. He had remembered these muffins tasting fine only a few days before, but this one tasted like cardboard and stuck in his mouth. He poured himself some water from the sink to wash the muffin down. He was not in the mood to eat. The muffin would have to suffice; he really didn't want anything else.

"You're anxious," Sherlock said casually as John re-entered the sitting room. "Normally you'd eat a bit more than that for breakfast. Well, it's more of a lunch, considering it's past 1 pm."

"So what's our plan of attack for today?" John inquired, ignoring Sherlock's deduction.

"Simple, really. We drive into town and hope there aren't too many of them to get through. If there are, we come back and try another day. "

"What if there are always too many?"

"If we're unable to obtain supplies in the next three or four days, I'd say we have no choice but to relocate. We can't stay here if we can't get what we need to live."

"Right." John hoped that wouldn't be the case. Even though he was constantly alert for signs of trouble, 221B still felt safe. At least, as safe as someone could feel in a situation like this. It was home; it was comforting. He didn't want to imagine breaking into a foreign house, still fresh with the memories of the people who once lived there. He didn't want to look at their family photos and picture instead some grotesque, twisted monsters. He wanted to stay here, where at least something was familiar.

"Well, no use waiting around here any longer. Get your gun," Sherlock commanded standing and tucking his own gun into the waistband of his pants.

John lumbered up the stairs with heavy feet. He changed his clothes and retrieved his gun. He studied himself in the mirror, the bulge of his gun slightly visible under his shirt, his extra clips in his breast pocket. His expression was hard. He looked ragged; he hadn't bothered to shave in a while. He was still a soldier. He realized he had never stopped being a soldier. He walked straight out of the war and right into Sherlock's battlefield and in turn into this mess. He knew it would never stop, especially not now. He'd be fighting for his life every day for the foreseeable future. There was no cure for this, there was no stopping it. He'd have to soldier on, doing what he did best, protecting the people he loved. Which at the moment was whittled down to Sherlock.

He tore his gaze away from his reflection, and with the same heavy feet he clambered back down the stairs. Throwing Sherlock a smirk, he gestured towards the door and said, "Right then."

As John passed him on the way to the door, Sherlock briefly clapped a hand on his back. John wasn't sure what he meant by it. Sherlock usually kept physical interaction to a minimum, and when he broke that trend it wasn't without good reason. He could sense his nerves, John knew. Was he being reassuring as a friend, or doing it so John wouldn't freeze in action later? He settled on believing both.

Before opening the door, John took a peek out the window. Not too many. A few stumbling around. They shouldn't be a problem. And if they were, John would take care of them.

"We're good," he relayed to Sherlock, both of them starting to remove all the items they had barred the door with. John cracked the door cautiously, motioning for Sherlock to stay back. His soldier's instincts had kicked in, and he found himself suddenly taking charge despite his nerves.

John swung the door open and crept around to the driver's seat of the car. He nodded to Sherlock and he hastily joined John in the passenger's side.

"The Yard first?" John asked, throwing the car into drive.

"Naturally. It's best to arm ourselves as soon as possible."

The drive through the city was possibly the eeriest thing John had ever seen. Aside from a few wandering zombies and numerous bodies littering the sidewalk, the London was as deserted as he had ever seen it. Windows were broken, doors hung off their hinges, a fire hydrant spewed water. He was honestly surprised at the lack of zombies. London was large in numbers, and he expected the zombies to be just as numerous.

"We're lucky there aren't more of them," John observed.

"Don't speak too soon," Sherlock replied. "There's a lot of people in this city. They have to have gone somewhere."

As they pulled up to the Yard, John felt a pit forming in his stomach. They had friends there, and he was afraid of finding them inside. He parked the car as close to the door as possible, then exited the car while drawing his gun, Sherlock doing the same. He scanned the area, making sure nothing was close enough to be considered a threat. He walked in front of Sherlock and slowly cracked the door and peered around the corner, his gun still raised. A stray corpse slowly lumbered down the hallway towards them, blocking their way.

_Bam._

John got rid of it. They continued into the building and down the hallway, careful not to tread on any of the fallen bodies. John tried not to look at them for fear of seeing someone he recognized. He skirted around the body of a woman with dark curly hair that looked suspiciously like Sally Donovan. He forced himself to look straight forward and stay alert.

A few moments later, he realized this was a mistake. All too late, he heard something scrambling on the floor and felt something clamp down hard onto his ankle. He gasped and darted his eyes downward. A body—no, not even that—a torso had its grisly hand encircled around his ankle, its grip tight. John fumbled to take aim at it, but before he could get himself together, its brains were suddenly spattered everywhere. It ceased moving, and John turned around to see Sherlock wielding his gun and breathing hard. John just stood there gaping and clasping his chest.

"I'm a better shot than you think," Sherlock said, his tone surprisingly calm.

John chuckled a bit. "Thanks," he breathed, still trying to get his wits about him. His focus came back to him, and this time he didn't dare ignore the bodies scattered around the floor. He tried to keep his head on a swivel, looking all directions at once, ready to react at the first sign of motion.

As they went on, John was more and more baffled at the lack of activity. Still, he wasn't complaining. He wasn't eager to be grabbed around the ankles again anytime soon. He quickened his pace as they neared the armory, ready to get out as soon as possible.

"Wait," Sherlock piped up, pausing to check in a room they had just passed. John looked back and realized what room it was. It was Lestrade's office. John wasn't sure what he was looking for in there; the room was empty and torn apart.

"Sherlock…"

"It's nothing. Let's keep going," Sherlock muttered, leaving the office almost as quickly as he entered it. Just a little farther to the armory. Down the hallway, one more turn. Once they reached the end of the hall, John threw his arm out to stop Sherlock. He knew there was something down there before he even looked. He could hear them shuffling and their sharp, ragged breaths. He turned around the corner to face them.

Four of them. He was sure that he recognized one of them as the woman who worked at the front desk. Two of them were just nameless faces. The last one was so disfigured he wouldn't know if it was a familiar person or not.

_Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. _

All gone. The door to the armory stood wide open. As they neared the entrance, they saw that most of the arsenal had been picked over. It would only make sense that everyone in the building would attempt to arm themselves as best as possible when the outbreak occurred. John sighed as he entered the armory.

"Everything's gone," John sulked.

"There's got to be something useful here," Sherlock said, snooping under the shelves. "See?" He extracted a couple of riot shields and nightsticks from the floor. "And this never runs out of ammo."

"I suppose." John figured that was pretty useful, but he preferred his gun. Especially in these last few days, it had become an extension of his arm. His eyes scanned the room, looking for more firepower. "Ah-ha!" he exclaimed, withdrawing a loaded handgun and several cartridges. "That's more like it," he said grinning.

They searched the room several times over, but didn't find anything else of use. John couldn't help but feel a little dejected. He didn't know what he expected to find, but he thought there'd be more than this.

"This trip wasn't completely useless, John. Don't look so deflated. Anyway, on to Tesco," Sherlock jeered. The sentence sounded so ordinary, _on to Tesco, just need to pick up some milk._ That trip to Tesco could kill them.

They started out the down the hallway, wove through the slew of broken bodies on the ground, and somehow made it unscathed back to the car. At this point, the lack of zombies was putting John on edge rather than comforting him, as if this was the calm before the storm.

They didn't talk on the car ride to the store. John's gaze was fixed forward, always prepared to see a horde of walkers coming towards them. Sherlock stared out the passenger's window, his brow furrowed in thought.

Once again, John parked as close as possible to the door. He didn't like the automatic sliding doors. That meant one of them could walk in at any time with no problem. His grip tight on his gun, he repeated their usual procedure, scanning the area, scoping for zombies, and motioning for Sherlock that it was safe to leave the car. John noticed he kept one of the nightsticks at his hip. The Tesco seemed pretty much deserted, but he didn't let his guard down for a second.

"Well, at least I won't get into a tussle with the checkout machine today." John knew Sherlock cocked a smirk behind him. He grabbed two shopping baskets and thrust one into Sherlock's arms. "Grab some shit and let's get out of here."

They started down the same aisle, occasionally tossing something in their baskets. After a few minutes, John turned his shoulder and saw that Sherlock had wandered away from him and down a different aisle. Damn him.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm fine, John, honestly. I can go to the supermarket without mummy's supervision."

Cheeky bastard.

John sighed and continued to throw items in his basket. Soon enough, it was full. If Sherlock had filled his too, that would be enough food to last for a couple weeks, at least. He turned to go and find Sherlock when a crash fell upon his ears. Immediately, he ran towards it. He heard Sherlock call his name, followed by a gunshot.

"Sherlock!" His feet couldn't carry him fast enough. He arrived on the spot to see Sherlock on the ground, his gun in his hand, and a freshly killed corpse at his feet. John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and started inspecting him. "Christ, Sherlock, are you alright? Are you bit?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine, John. It just caught me off guard, I'm fine," he stammered, clambering to his feet. John could tell he was shaken.

"Let's go home," John said calmly. Sherlock nodded. They both retrieved their baskets and headed for the exit. Home free. A couple of scares, but unscathed. They made it.

John ate those thoughts as soon as they walked through the doors of Tesco.

_How._

They were everywhere. Hundreds of them. A swarm. Wheezing, stumbling, clawing. John's heart fell.

"How—so many. How did so many get here so quickly? How?" John shouted in disbelief.

"Shut up and shoot," Sherlock remarked, charging into the throng.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, having no choice but to swoop in after him. The distance between them and the car was not very far, but it seemed like miles to him.

_Bam. Bam. Bam._

One after another, he and Sherlock fired off rounds into the horde of zombies around them. No matter how many they shot, so matter how many bodies fell, their numbers didn't seem to decrease, a path didn't seem to be cleared. John had emptied his clip and reloaded. Glancing over at Sherlock, he noted that he hadn't been lying earlier, he actually was a pretty good shot. He would shoot a body on his right, and bash a head with the nightstick on his left. Sherlock would have made a pretty decent soldier. A near perfect one, actually. Pretty capable in combat and lacking most emotions, just what the army needed more of.

He turned his mind back to the battle taking place in front of him. He was starting to get nervous. They had managed to inch a bit closer to the car, but he was running low on ammo again. Maybe he should have taken a nightstick as well. Those riot shields would have been of good use, too. John hated when Sherlock was right. And he always was.

John reloaded again. This was his last clip. He had to make it last. Almost there, they could make it. He wasn't going to die here. He refused. Just a little farther.

"John," Sherlock said, way too quietly for their current predicament. "Jo—"

Something wasn't right.

John turned around, but nothing could ever prepare him for what he saw. It was worse than Molly. Of all the things he had imagined he would see when he turned around, this was not one of them.

Mrs. Hudson.

Sweet, brave, kind Mrs. Hudson. Nothing could hurt Mrs. Hudson. Anything that did faced being thrown out of a window by Sherlock. She was untouchable. No one would dare harm her. She was gone, dead, and somehow, humanity and hope had died with her. In her place was a monster straight out of one of John's nightmares. She was sickly, her clothes torn, her face bloodied, her shoulder mangled. She stepped forward slowly on crooked feet, reaching out to Sherlock as if she recognized him. John would have sworn her eyes were pleading, like she was begging her boys to help her. Sherlock had his gun raised but stood frozen on the spot.

"Sherlock, she's gone, you know that!" John shouted, turning his shoulder to shoot another zombie. So close. They had to get out. Sherlock remained still. "Sherlock!"

He wouldn't move. Or he couldn't.

John shot two more zombies before clambering over to Sherlock's position. All the bodies were narrowing in on them. They were so close. They were not dying here.

"Sherlock," John said slowly, coming up beside him. John reached up to Sherlock's raised gun and lowered it. He mustered up all his resolve then took aim with his own gun. He swallowed hard.

The sound of a gunshot had never been more deafening.


	7. Final

John sat at the kitchen table, cradling his face in his hands and then running them back through his hair. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes. He stood up from the table and uselessly opened the pantry. Their excursion out had been next to worthless. They hadn't been able to secure many supplies, as their hands had been full fighting off an army of the dead.

So here they were, back to square one. Holed up in 221B with dwindling supplies, fatigued bodies, and unsettled minds.

John had never seen Sherlock behave like he had today. He was in complete shock; totally frozen. Something like that would have given anyone a shock, but he never expected it from Sherlock. He was bent on erasing emotions from this whole ordeal. But this was different. This was Mrs. Hudson. What could ever possibly ever harm Mrs. Hudson?

The whole thing put John into a quite a fit as well, but his protective instincts overpowered it. He hated what he had to do, but he sure as hell wasn't going to let himself or Sherlock die outside of that Tesco. He took that shot, then practically picked up Sherlock and dragged him into the car. He didn't seem to come back to his senses until they arrived back at 221B, which was luckily not overrun with zombies.

As they dashed out of breath back into their flat, he remarked, "We can't stay here for much longer. There's too many of them in the city, and sooner or later they'll find their way down here. We're fresh meat, most likely some of the only left in this area. They'll find us. Our defenses won't hold."

His voice was flat. He said and did nothing more and retreated straight to his room. John paced through the living room for a few minutes before deciding to rap on his flatmate's door.

"Sherlock, I—are you alright?"

"Go away, John."

"Sherlock, you don't have to—,"

"You saw me freeze out there. Isn't that enough embarrassment for one day? Please go away."

John had never wanted to punch someone more. He knew he wouldn't win. He never could with Sherlock. Maybe he didn't need to talk about this, but John did. He wanted to scream. All of this was too much. A week ago, all he had to worry about was remembering to pick up some milk. Today he had to shoot his landlady in the head to stop her from killing his flatmate.

This led him to where he was now, searching the pantry for what he didn't know. It was almost completely bare. He almost resigned to failure when he noticed a bottle in the back, gleaming and full of translucent amber liquid. A bottle of spiced rum. Where did that come from? Sherlock had to have bought it, John didn't care for hard liquor—something that may have been attributed to his sister's alcoholism. It still seemed strange; he'd never really seen Sherlock drink either.

Without really thinking about it, John took the bottle and poured a generous amount for himself. He cautiously sipped it. It burned his throat, but warmed him as it went down. He wasn't the type to drown his problems in any kind of controlled substance, but he needed something to console him since Sherlock wouldn't. Everything was happening so fast, and with every drink he took from the glass, time seemed to slow down. His head became dizzy, his thoughts muddled, and he didn't have to deal with them all running through his head at once.

Once his glass was drained he poured another. The taste became increasingly bitter but he continued to choke it down. He began to lose the concept of time altogether, only measuring it in the amount of drinks he had. He poured a third.

His head was swimming. He stood on wobbly legs and stumbled to the stairs, somehow making it up to his room.

He stopped in front of the mirror and studied himself like he had before they left earlier that day. It was as if he had aged several years in those few hours. The bags under his eyes had never been worse, he was in terrible need of a shave, his face seemed gaunt and sunken in. He turned away from his reflection, disgusted.

This wasn't fair. He didn't deserve this, any of this. He just wanted his normal life back. He wanted late night cases and Chinese. He wanted violin playing at 3 am, his shitty job at the surgery, dates with mediocre women, experiments wrecking the flat, midnight night calls from his drunken sister.

He just wanted all of that back. He wasn't asking much, his life was so insignificant. Why couldn't everyone else get their insignificant lives back?

"Just give me my life," he said under his breath. "I don't want what you've given me instead. Give me my life!" he now yelled. He didn't stop yelling. He didn't even know what he was saying. He swept his arm across the top of his dresser, sending all of his belongs flying. Sherlock could surely hear all the racket he was making, but he didn't care. Stumbling back, he fell back into the wall, and slowly slid down it until he was sitting. He didn't try to choke back the lump in his throat or keep the tears from spilling over his eyes.

The sheets of his bed were twisted haphazardly around him. He attempted to extricate himself from them as he lifted his pounding head from his pillow. He didn't remember getting into bed the night before.

John couldn't remember the last time he had a hangover this bad. Then again, he couldn't remember the last time, if ever, that he knocked back three glasses of rum that quickly.

"Water," he croaked to himself, his mouth dry and sticky. He sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his temples. Never again. How did Harry do this on the regular? Shuffling down the stairs, he groaned and blinked his eyes. Lights too bright.

He prepared himself to find Sherlock in the sitting room with a snide remark prepared just for John, but he was nowhere to be found. He knew Sherlock would have deduced what John had done the night before, if his obvious signs of a hangover weren't enough. He did note however, that the door to Sherlock's room was slightly ajar. He must be in the basement, then. Still, it seemed peculiar. Sherlock usually never left his door open, whether he was in it or not.

As he rounded the corner, he felt his heart drop. The barricades on the door were out of place.

Sherlock had left the flat.

_What an idiot,_ John thought, and he wasn't sure if he was referring to Sherlock or himself. Why did Sherlock have to do this? Why couldn't he just stay inside, why couldn't he stay safe? Why did John think it was alright to take his eye off of him? Now Sherlock was wandering around in the most dangerous place possible all because John had to go and get himself drunk.

He ignored all symptoms of his hangover; his heavy feet, his splitting headache, his sensitive eyes. He flew up the stairs and retrieved his gun and ammo. Before he dashed out the door, he spied one of the nightsticks they found at the Yard the day before. Backtracking, he took the stick and wore it on his hip like Sherlock had.

There was no thought in his mind as he flew out the door except one: find Sherlock. His own safety was no longer a concern.

There were more bodies lumbering around the street than usual. His heart in his throat, he climbed into the car still parked in front of 221B.

_Please, God. _

He didn't have the slightest as to where Sherlock might be, or even what he was doing. Did he venture back to Tesco on his own? Was he trying to run some crazy experiment? Or something else altogether? Whatever it was, it was fine. It's Sherlock. He's fine. He's way too smart to get himself killed.

Taking extra care to examine every being on the street, he drove cautiously. He was waiting for any familiar element of Sherlock; his trademark coat, the color of his scarf, his curly hair, his enigmatic face.

"Where are you, you stupid bastard?"

As he rounded the corner, he noted several bodies with freshly bashed in heads. He was on the right trail. Farther down the street he saw—no, that couldn't be him, it wasn't.

"Shit. Shit! No, no—God no."

He was stumbling, holding his neck, trying to staunch the bleeding. Still wary of his surroundings, he was surveying the area and holding his gun tentatively in his other hand. No, that wasn't Sherlock Holmes, it couldn't be. He was too clever to die.

Without thinking, John pulled the car to a screeching halt and scrambled over to him.

"Jesus, Sherlock. No, oh God, please, no," he sputtered, still in disbelief. Whirring Sherlock around, he was able to see the full extent of his wound. It was too deep. John was surprised he was still able to walk, let alone breathe, and he was sure it was only a matter of time before he essentially drowned in his own blood. "You utter git—what in the _hell_ where you thinking," his voice cracked, this was too much. Sherlock was untouchable. Why, _why_ was this happening?

"John…" he sputtered, half pleading.

"Shut up, Sherlock. Just shut up," he snapped back, dragging him into a nearby alley away from most of threatening living dead. Gingerly, he helped him down and propped him up against the wall, Sherlock wincing in pain.

"I never meant to—" Sherlock began.

"You never meant to what? Get yourself killed? Sherlock…"

"John, I'm sorry. Yesterday—yesterday in the store. I was scratched. I didn't think it was anything to worry about but—" he stopped to catch his breath. It was labored, and John knew it was both difficult and painful for him to speak. "I knew—I started recognizing the symptoms. I was already done for, so I thought—"

"Jesus, Sherlock, why didn't you tell me, I could have—"

"You couldn't have done anything. Don't waste time thinking you could have. Promise me that." John didn't answer, he only nodded. "I thought I would go out and try to study the moving ones more closely. I had nothing to lose, and I didn't want you to have to see me, I didn't want this to happen. I got careless, it came up behind me—"

"So what, you just—you were just going to leave with no explanation and die alone in some alley?"

"I knew what seeing me like this would do to you."

"You son of a bitch," John choked, not in anger but in disbelief.

"I'm sorry, John. Forgive me." Sherlock was fighting for his breath now, and John knew he would lose the battle soon. He knelt down next to his dying friend. His best friend. He looked him straight in the eyes and saw the life slowly draining out of them.

"What am I supposed to do? I could handle it—losing all of them, but not you. You can't leave me in all this, you…" John trailed off, his voice cracking. Sherlock reached up and put a hand on John's shoulder, and John knew the gesture took a lot of his remaining strength.

"John—you were the better half of me. You always saw the good in everything. You will find something worth living for in all of this." A smile played on Sherlock's lips. His breathing slowed, his body slackened, his eyelids seemed to grow heavy.

"Sherlock, don't," John whispered, his eyes clamped shut. When he opened them, he saw nothing but emptiness.

He was gone.

John felt hollow. He sat for a long time and stared at Sherlock—at nothing. There was nothing left of him.

He paid no mind to the bodies in the street. He no longer cared for his own safety. Nothing mattered. Nothing except the lifeless, bloody body slumped over in front of him—the body of his best friend. He felt as if a tangible sense of loneliness was closing in on him from all sides, and the weight of it would soon crush him.

What was the point of carrying on? With Sherlock around, he felt like he had a purpose. He had to keep an eye on him, watch his back. Now what did he do?

As he stared at Sherlock's body for he didn't know how long, it started to sink in. He was gone. His best friend. The person he cared about more deeply than anyone. He loved Sherlock, he really did. It wasn't like that, no—but Sherlock had affected John in a way no one else in his life ever had. As frustrating as he could be sometimes, Sherlock had managed to slowly take away all the bad things in his life. His nightmares had stopped, he wasn't restless anymore—he felt alive with Sherlock, he felt driven, he had a purpose.

Now he felt completely lost, and he couldn't help but feel that this was all his fault. He took his eyes off Sherlock and look what happened. How could he let this happen?

As his hands found his way to his gun tucked in his waistband, he came to a sudden realization. He couldn't bring Sherlock back, but he could stop him from becoming like them. In fact, he knew he would never allow that to happen—he couldn't. The image of Sherlock from his nightmares—grizzled and bloodied, reaching for him with mangled hands—flicked before his eyes and he wasn't going to let it become reality. Slowly, he drew his gun and raised it.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so, so sorry," he choked, swallowing hard.

_Bam._

That clever brain, that spectacular brain—was gone. It was spattered all over wall behind Sherlock's broken body.

John exhaled hard. He knew he had to leave soon or else the bodies would become so numerous he wouldn't be able to escape. Their interests aroused by the sound of the gunshot, several clambered down the alleyway towards John. He shot them down almost without looking. He no longer felt any sympathy for them. He didn't see innocent people. He only saw the creatures that killed his friend.

His eyes darted back to Sherlock's body. He couldn't leave him there. He hoisted him over his shoulder, staining his own clothes with blood.

As he exited the alley, he realized there were a lot more zombies than originally expected. He started firing—at all of them, regardless of whether they were a threat or not. He didn't care if he was wasting ammo, he wanted them all gone.

By the time he reached the car, he had emptied his clip. He carefully laid Sherlock in the back seat and drove back to Baker Street. His knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel so tightly.

He pulled up to 221B, opened the door, and carried Sherlock inside as if it was nothing out of the ordinary. He had never felt so numb.

He knew where he was going with Sherlock's body before he got inside; the basement. He would leave Sherlock in the basement with Molly, and then he would leave. He couldn't stay here anymore, and not just because the numbers of zombies were getting dangerously high.

The smell was overwhelming as he opened the door to the basement. He didn't know what to expect to see as he entered the room—he didn't know what Sherlock had done to Molly. He was surprised to see that Molly was just as John had last seen her. Broken and grisly, but more or less the same. John wasn't sure if Sherlock has done anything to her at all.

That bastard.

"You couldn't bring yourself to do it, could you, Sherlock?" John said to no one as he laid Sherlock beside her. He looked at the pair of them for a few seconds, and then hastily exited the room. He didn't belong in there; it was a room for the dead.

As he trudged up the stairs back to 221B, he did not expect to see one of the living in his sitting room, yet there he was. Smug, as always, lanky, and still finely dressed despite this disaster.

Mycroft Holmes.

"I'm sorry, John. Things got out of hand, I couldn't get a helicopter to you at Bart's like I said. But if you'll come with me now I can get you and Sherlock—"

"Sherlock's dead." No two words had ever been this heavy on John's lips. He forced them out; he needed to hear himself say it, to make it final.

Mycroft was not overemotional, but as he clamped his eyes shut tight and sighed deeply, John could tell he was surprised. Mycroft had thought his brother too clever to be killed as well. Maybe that their downfall—they expected too much of Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, John," Mycroft began, addressing John as if he had suffered a greater loss than himself. "I never thought—"

"I didn't either."

"If you'll come with me now, I can offer you safety. There's a government bunker—"

"No."

"John, you can't stay out here on your own, it's only getting worse, and it's not just here—it's the entire population, the whole world. Where will you go?"

"I'll find somewhere. I'm a doctor, surely there are injured people out there who need me. I'm not going to stay holed up in some government bunker and cower. Before your brother died, he—he told me to find something else worth living for, and I won't find it if I go with you, Mycroft."

Mycroft closed his eyes again. "I understand, John. Be careful, wherever you go." He stood and offered his hand to John. John did the same.

"You too, Mycroft. And I'm sorry—I'm sorry I couldn't save him." John couldn't look him in the eye.

"My brother was one of the most clever people in the world—but also one of the most foolish. You can't help that." John forced himself to meet Mycroft's gaze. It was sympathetic.

"Thank you, Mycroft."

He quirked a smile. "Take care, John."

"Take care."

John cautiously opened the door the petrol station after filling the car. He didn't know where he was going, exactly, but he was driving in the direction of a less heavily populated area. He didn't want to drive into the city where it was more likely the zombies would be more numerous.

At any rate, he needed food and supplies, and since the station seemed relatively deserted, this was as good a place as any to get them.

Although he was seemingly alone, he wasn't about to let his guard down. He kept his gun out in front of him, eyes darting all around waiting to catch any sign of movement. Just when he thought it was all clear, he heard sounds coming from the corner. His soldier's instincts kicked in and he whirred around, prepared to fire.

"Wait, don't shoot! I'm not one of them!"

John was surprised to see the first living human he had come into contact with since he had seen Mycroft off four days ago. It was a woman. John thought she would have been very pretty on a normal basis, but she seemed a little rough around the edges at the moment. He was sure he didn't look too good himself. Her features were soft, but he could tell there was some fight in her. She was of medium build and had brunette hair pulled back into a long ponytail. He noted an injury on her arm.

"My God. You're the first living person I've seen since—well, I've lost people," John said, lowering his gun.

"Same for me. I'm on my own. Where are you headed?"

"Not sure, really. Away from the city into a less populated area. Are you injured? Were you bit? Scratched?" he inquired, nodding at her arm.

"That's smart. And, no, nothing like that—just a normal cut. I had to make a fast getaway."

"I'm a doctor, I can dress it if you'll let me." John wasn't sure what it was about this woman, but he felt inclined to trust her. A gut instinct told him that she was not dangerous.

"Thank you, I appreciate that."

"So where are you headed, then?"

"Same as you, I guess. I'm just a drifter now."

"Why don't you come with me? Power in numbers. I need someone to watch my back." He said the words before he even really thought about them. He suddenly felt as if he was doing nothing more than chatting up a woman in a bar.

"You know nothing about me, not even my name, and you're asking me to go away with you? You trust quickly," she teased, smiling.

"I became flatmates with my best friend after knowing him for about five minutes. I have a track record of things like this, I suppose. And really, I've got nothing to lose at this point. My name's John, by the way. John Watson," he said holding out his hand. She accepted it.

"I'm Mary. Mary Morstan."


End file.
